I Wanna Get Better
by SingleHearts
Summary: The girl from the Diner has managed to fill his board with red strings, and he is not ready to let anyone know about her glowing blue eyes until he has managed to tie at least one green string around her, Malia Hale. (i suck at summaries)
1. 1

It's the humming of electric wires connected between dozens of houses for miles that keeps Malia mildly distracted. It's from the peak of some cliff that she feels a little less small as she looks down at a blanket of lights that seems to spread like the sea. It's some spot, at the edge of the woods, that comforts her, separates her from those living below in the coziness of their homes.

A home. That's the difference between them and her.

Thunder claps above her head and she turns to look up at the gray skies. She grins from ear to ear and closes her eyes, outstretching her arms over the windshield of her beat up impala, she allows the scent of ozone to fill her lungs.

There is only so much she can ignore, but for now she'll let the rain wash away her troubles. So as the first raindrop kisses her cheek Malia forgets about where she came from and where she is supposed to go.

Here, at the top of Beacon Hills, her hometown, Malia is who she wants to be.

The rain falls harder, soaking her skin, melting her onto the hood of her car. She is feeling the rain, smelling the earth, hearing the collision between water and leaves, listening to the beat of aluminum as the raindrops fall like pebbles on the mighty Chevrolet. Malia is freeing herself, and if she could fly over the cliff she would, because right now she feels like she is soaring in a million places all at once.

Her grin softens, turning into a smile that could easily get someone lost. She breaths in and lets her eyelids fly open.

There, in the irises of her once brown eyes, are the blue desert skies burning brighter than sapphires in the night.

* * *

"Scott-"

A life of living with the law hasn't stopped Stiles Stilinksi from trying to break it more than once.

"I'm driving." The old jeep bounces as it goes over the bumpy trails of the woods. "Oh god," Stiles almost loses control of the wheel as the car swerves right."Scott, I'll call you later."

He should know better, divided attention on the road doesn't serve anyone any good.

"Okay," he exhales to himself, focusing only on the route before him. He's been coming down this pathway for about four nights now, and each time he comes he curses the ground and his crappy old jeep. There is one thing Stiles hates more than bumpy roads—bumpy trails _without_ a road.

"She better be here," because Stiles wouldn't risk himself and the condition of his unstable jeep for nothing. He also wouldn't come knowing that a sore ass awaits him the next morning from all the bumping it does against the hard seat _if_ he didn't expect to find her.

He slows, turning off the headlights, once he is reaching the edge of the woods. The scene is quiet, a little too fairy-like with the lights of the city glowing overhead just below the peak. It's pretty. But Stiles doesn't care. He didn't come all this way for sightseeing or feeling 'out of this world'.

He leans forward, pressing his chest against the steering wheel, in search for the old black car.

It takes him a few minutes to spot the vehicle, but once he does he is quickly parking his car behind a cluster of trees before _someone_ spots _him_.

He turns off the engine, squints his eyes and begins searching again. He's found the car, but he still needs to find her. His heart starts drumming nervously in his chest as he plays "Where's Waldo?" with the girl from the Diner.

"Where are you?" he whispers to nobody as his eyes search for a tall girl with sun kissed skin that he knows glistens under the moonlight.

He starts drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, anxiously waiting for something to happen

He's been secretly investigating the girl. Sneaking into the woods late at night to spy on her. No, not spy. Investigate. Yes, he's been investigating her, because investigating a suspicious individual requires some following and sneaking around. Which is what he has been doing and currently doing, for investigational purposes.

Stiles keeps his eyes intent on the black car, searching for any sign of her presence. It takes a few minutes but then he catches it. A gentle rock of the car. He surges forward, almost flying through the windshield of his jeep, trying to get a closer look. There is something on the hood of the car, but he can't get a clear view of what it is, because his jeep is right on the other automobile's tail.

He jumps onto the passenger seat and cranes his neck by the corner of the windshield trying to get a glimpse of…of...

Legs, that's what he sees, smooth tanned legs raising like wide mountains over the hood. He is too distracted by the sight that he doesn't notice how perfectly imbalanced his current position is. His hand slips from the dashboard, where he had been holding himself up, and his chin hits the glove compartment with a loud _thud!_

"Fuck," he mutters as he rubs his throbbing chin. This won't do, he decides, he needs to get out of the jeep in order to get a closer, _better_ , look.

Stiles has never been the most graceful of humans, tripping and stumbling out of most situations, but he still manages to sneak out of his blue jeep and behind a tree that stands diagonal to the black Chevrolet without causing a scene.

He has a perfect view now, and he considers that maybe if he'd actually restrained himself from whispering out the words "perfect view" he'd be feeling less like a stalker and more like a detective.

He tries to ignore the feeling, swallowing a huge lump of guilt that's formed in his throat, and continues _investigating._

She is resting on the hood of her car, her back against the windshield, grinning up at the sky. Stiles has to admit: he'd have declared her crazy right from the get-go, if she'd not looked so mysteriously beautiful every time she smiled up at nothing like that.

She stays for a while, laying with her back flat against her car looking up, and then she is outstretching her arms to the sides like a bird ready to take flight. Stiles frowns because, this is new, all she usually does is look out onto the city with a scowl on her face.

One night though, she did do something unexpected that almost scared the living crap out of him. She had stood right at the edge of the cliff, leaning forward like a palm tree being bullied by some harsh winds. Stiles had almost blown his cover that night thinking that she might let herself fall over, which she technically did; she let herself fall backwards onto the ground. And then she laid there grinning like a Cheshire cat right up at the sky while he tried to sooth his frantic heart.

Stiles watches as she flutters her eyelids closed and slightly tilts her chin up as if waiting for something to come. He licks his lips in thought and tastes something sweet; he blinks a few times before he feels something wet plopping on his head. He looks up and sees trickles of rain falling between leaves and he curses. He hates getting wet.

He gets distracted by the weather for a few seconds, wiping away the few drops of rain that have managed to surface his hoodie, but then something manages to recapture his attention through the corner of his eye. He turns to look, and then he is frozen in place.

Stiles knows that blue is pretty; it is pretty in the way it looks soft and calm in the evening skies. It is pretty in the dress that his mother wore on his last birthday with her. Blue is pretty in the beaches that he once visited when he was young and innocently happy. Blue had always been pretty; but it had never been beautiful, not this magnificently dangerously beautiful until now.

Stiles had forgotten about the rain, stepping feet away from his hiding spot, letting himself be drenched, as he got lost in thought staring stupidly at the girl showering in rain.

He is staring at the way her silky tan skin glistens under cumulated raindrops that look like diamonds, at her smile that makes him want to capture it like a treasure. But most of all he is staring at her eyes, the crystal blue that encircles her dark pupils.

He blinks away the rain that gets caught in his eyelashes, and when he refocuses his vision the once piercing blue eyes that had entranced him have faded into a soft chocolatey hue. Stiles shakes his head trying to get the acid rain, he feels has seeped through his pores and drove him mad for a few seconds, out of his system.

He stumbles backwards, tripping on his own foot as reality kicks in. He's seen this before, he's heard about it, and now he just witnessed it. The panic and excitement sends his tangled legs running back towards his jeep.

He has to tell Scott about this, about the girl with the weird habits he has been observing since about a month ago.

He has to tell Scott about the girl with the glowing blue eyes, but then he is thinking that he doesn't really want to... maybe he should wait.

The girl from the Diner has managed to fill his board with red strings, and he is not giving her out until he knows more about her. He wants to tie a green string around her first, before he lets anyone know about Malia Hale.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**

 _I discovered that notes are annoying as F, but i cant help it. Yup, i wrote this on a whim after listening to Bleacher's I Wanna Get Better (hint: title) on repeat. Just to give you a hint of what i have in mind, think of these lines from the song: "I didn't know i was lonely till i saw your face. I didn't know i was broken until i wanted to change." One line is dedicated to Malia's story and the other to Stiles. And i'm blabbering again, sorry about that._

But please review!


	2. 2

**_About a Month Prior:_**

The cool winds cut through her damp fur rippling into her skin as she runs on all fours. She is panting hard and heavy, her nose cold and wet from perspiration.

She has been running for miles, but she isn't tired. Not even when the muddied floors work her muscles like pumpjacks as she repeatedly pulls her paws from the wet soil.

 _You have to stay in control!_

A voice growls between her temples and she sprints faster.

 _If you're ever going to kill again, it will be under your control._

She plays maze with the trees, zigzagging like a mad animal as she tries to lose the predator voice ringing in her head.

 _Stay in control!_

Malia snarls, her eyes flashing blue as she snaps her teeth at the invisible force that has turned her into prey.

All this time Malia hadn't _just_ been running, she had been running away from something.

Her tongue covered in thick liquid accidentally brushes the roof of her mouth and she winces. The raw metallic taste that had almost become numb to her resurfaces, and the synapses in her brain fire like shotguns at the recognizable taste of human blood.

A flash of a memory filled with screams invades her mind, and she whimpers.

Malia stops, the energy to run completely lost.

Blurs of familiar faces zoom in and out of her thoughts.

Her heart that had been working like a steam engine, setting the inner walls of her chest on fire, is now taken upon itself to shrivel up.

She paces in a tight circle, moving left and right as anxiety quickly creeps in on her.

Malia whimpers once more, the tightening feeling within her ribcage making her panic. She wants to escape; Malia needs to escape from this form that is suffocating her.

 _Control!_

She tries to breathe in deep, scenting for anything remotely familiar that could pull her back, but the cold has dampened her olfactory senses. All she can smell is the dried blood still lingering on her tongue.

There has to be another way.

She sprints, with trembling legs, towards the open road. And as Malia approaches the edge of the woods she focuses her hearing, concentrating hard on trying to capture _anything_ that could trigger that human side within her.

Yet moments pass and nothing.

She is prancing almost on the side of the street, exposing herself, making herself more vulnerable that she already feels when she finally hears it. It is faint at first, but then it gets loader, rumbling alongside the motor of its vehicle.

' _Dad, I told you it's not called snooping when it's accidental.'_

The voice doesn't sound familiar, but it's human nonetheless.

' _It was an accident.'_

It is low, the voice, almost throaty as if coming from the chest. Yet, it augments every now and then delivering high annoying pitches.

' _I was just getting a glass of milk…'_

She magnifies her hearing, on that single male speaker, trying desperately to anchor herself.

' … _and the file just happened to be there.'_

The voice gets louder, and then it fades as the car passes by infront of her and drives off. Malia growls at the loss, but then she quickly sets into motion running after the vehicle.

' _So, uhm...'_

She is keeping pace, running on her own path behind the trees.

' _Since I happened to see it anyway…'_

Malia is tuning in completely on this single stranger, detecting every pitch of his voice. Listening to the way his breathing sometimes interrupts his speech, and the incessant way his heart refuses to beat at a rhythmic pace.

If anything, this boy is nothing else but distracting.

' _Aww come on dad, you're telling me you're not itching to spill this small information…'_

They are approaching some building that has a strong enough scent for Malia to detect with her frozen nose.

It smells of burnt and cold meat.

' _Really, you're not tempted to talk about the Hales.'_

Malia stops right on her tracks, letting the car outrun her into the small parking lot only a few yards ahead.

'… _the Hales.'_

The name echoes in her head.

'… _Hales.'_

Her chest begins to heave. She has an immediate urge to run back into the woods and disappear.

 _Stay in control._

Memories come crashing down on her like a massive wave, and she can't breathe.

 _A Hale._

The blurred faces from only moments ago become clear, and she remembers.

She remembers that night, the night of the accident.

Malia backs away as if trying to escape from herself. She knows who she is and what she's done.

Her eyes flash blue and she howls a cry that gradually turns into that of a woman's wail.

Her muscles contract, bones begin to crack under her skin. The fur on her skin begins to shed, and the cold night lashes at her bare self. Her limbs outstretch and transform; her body breaking and healing as it molds itself into a new form.

Malia is between mixed howls and cries, clawing her way to that parking lot filled with humans and warmth.

She needs to get out of the woods; she needs to shield herself from the light of the full moon, because, out here, Malia Hale has no control.

* * *

 _ **Note:**_

 ** _Thank you to the awesome reviewers who supported the beginning of this crazy fic. I hope i didn't disappoint with this chapter. I am aware that it is short, and my plan was to include Stiles perspective in this chapter as well (when he first met/saw Malia). Yet, due to the fact that i have essays due and a whole lot of catching up to do with school I decided to deliver this half chapter earlier, so you wouldn't have to wait for an update. I hope that's alright._**

 ** _In all honesty I am kind of nervous, it seems that a lot of you are hungry for a good Stalia fic and well it would just be awful if I got your hopes up with the first chapter and then failed to deliver with the second. So in all honesty tell me what you think, PM me or review, and I will try my best to do better._**

 _ **Hope you like and i will try to update soon if you wish for me to continue.**_


	3. 3

**_Part 2: About a month Prior_**

A police car comes to a stop, parking infront of an old diner. There isn't the sound of sirens or the flashing lights of red and blue. There is just the howling of the wind and the buzzing of a green neon sign that reads Old Joe's.

The passenger door to the car swings open, and a young boy steps out of the vehicle and into a puddle. He curses under his breath when the water splashes onto his khakis and then he slams the door shut. There are no handcuffs on his wrists, no blood on his clothes. He looks a free man. Annoyed but free.

Another door slams shut on the opposite side. A man dressed in a police uniform is making his way around the front of the car and towards the boy. He frowns when he gets to him and then slowly shakes his head.

They resemble each other, the man and the boy, in the roll of their eyes, the quirk of their mouth, and the raise of their brow. But, of course, parent and child often do. Malia just sometimes seems to forget.

They don't talk as they make their way towards the entrance of the diner. Yet, Malia keeps an open ear listening for even the faintest inhales and exhales of breath, because their sounds produce a steadiness in her core. They keep her claws buried beneath her nails, and her brown eyes from turning blue. Malia, starving as she is for some control, will take whatever crumbs they have to offer if it keeps her hunger at bay.

A little bell rings as they enter the restaurant, and Malia's eyes follow them as they make their way towards a table, their every move visible through the large windows that frame the entire upper-side of the restaurant.

She watches attentively, lingering in the shadows of the parking lot, close enough to see, but far enough to not be seen. The chilly night air appears to be the only thing aware of her presence, targeting her again and again.

Her naked wet form is beginning to feel much like frozen meat, but she doesn't attempt to move from where she is crouched behind an old truck. The full moon is temporally hidden behind a mass of grey clouds, and so is her thirst for utter control. Once the sky clears the little restrain she has will come undone like loose rope, setting a visceral thing free. Malia needs to anchor herself before that can happen, before the tides of the full moon rise again and try to take her away.

She brings her limbs closer together, and turns her attention back to the pair now seated opposite each other on a red booth.

She'll keep herself grounded as long as she can. And if anchoring herself to a strange teenage boy will do the trick, then so be it.

* * *

A bell jingles announcing their entrance, but no heads turn in their direction. The inside is empty of costumers, except for a bellied man sitting on one of the stools. And even he doesn't give them a single fuck.

"Dad, eating meat and potatoes doesn't qualify as a healthy meal." Stiles says as he trips over the rotten door sill.

"Potato is a vegetable," Mr. Stilinski shrugs.

They are making their way to their usual booth. A tattered old table with the small initials J.S and C.S. neatly carved on its top.

"It's a starchy food," Stiles quips, and his father sighs. "Stiles, I've had a long day. Now you're either going to let me eat." He takes one look at his son. "In peace." He quickly clarifies. "Or I can call Brenda to take you back to the station."

Stiles' gawks at his father in feign disbelief. He likes Brenda but not enough to voluntarily spend some time with her.

"Fine." Stiles resigns when his father doesn't even blink. Sometimes it can really suck to have a sheriff as a father.

He slides into his booth opposite to his dad and slumps. Leave it to his dad, a middle aged man with high cholesterol, to pick the greasiest place in town to eat at ten in the night. Stiles' hand absently reaches for the napkin dispenser and begins tipping it. He knows why his dad keeps coming back here, even when it might literally kill him. It isn't necessarily for the food, or the freedom of choosing to eat what has been forbidden to him. His father comes here because it's the closest thing he has of a happy memory with her.

Mr. Stilinski glances over at the counter, where the bellied man with the worn out cap is still eating his meal, and then at his son. "Tell you what." He leans in forward, trying hard to capture his son's attention. "I'll order an extra set of fries."

"What? The pound steak isn't enough to block your arteries anymore?"

" _Stiles._ "

Stiles releases the dispenser, and notices the relief in his father's eyes when he does. "Just know that you can't always bribe me with food," he points a finger at his dad.

Mr. Stilinski smirks sitting back. They both know that his father can bribe him with food any day and it would work. Where else did Stiles learn to bribe his own father with junk food, if not from his father? Blood runs thick and true.

"Fries?" Mr. Stilinski proposes once again, a mischievous wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

Stiles grits his jaw and scrunches his nose, annoyed. "Of course fries," he grumbles slumping back into his seat. Sometimes it sucks even more to have a smart ass for a father.

xXxXx

The Sheriff seems quite pleased with himself. It's hard to be the upper man when you have a sarcastic smart mouth for a son. Mr. Stilinski takes his winning battles with his son to heart.

The diner has been returned back its peace and quiet. Mr. Stilinski is just savoring the unfamiliar serenity when his son's hand reaches over to the end of the table again, where the napkin dispenser is.

He holds in a breath and curls his hands into fists. There isn't anything else to distract Stiles with. He can propose a milkshake, maybe even dispose of some of that Hale information he was bugging about earlier.

But none of that becomes necessary when Stiles hand falls on the salt shaker instead.

Mr. Stilinski releases his sustained breathe, and uncurls his fists. There are only a handful of times he and his son have talked about, or even mentioned, his mother. Five times to be exact. And right now Mr. Stilinski doesn't necessarily feel like increasing that number.

xXxXx

"John!" Someone bellows from behind, causing Mr. Stilinski to turn with a smile and Stiles to jump in terror.

"Sam," the Sheriff cheerfully replies when he catches sight of his old friend. "You're looking good."

Stiles scowls. He has to disagree with his father. Sam looks as disgusting as ever with his sweaty upper lip and potato nose. Mr. Potato Head looks more appealing than him.

"Off duty tonight John?" Sam asks with a toothless grin, and Stiles has to hold back a gag.

"Just came to eat the usual." Stiles' dad replies.

"See you brought your kid. Still looking pretty thin their boy." Sam smiles towards Stiles, and Stiles responds with the wonkiest fakest smile he can muster.

"If he came more often we would have filled him up nicely. He'd be playing football instead of that hockey-tennis-pansy sport you call lacrosse."

Stiles rolls his eyes and his dad only chuckles.

"Please get us the usual Sam, and some extra fries."

"Sure thing Sheriff." Sam winks and then heads back to the kitchen whistling that godforsaken horrid tune of his.

"I hate that guy." Stiles immediately divulges as soon as Sam's out of hearing range.

"Stiles," his father sighs. Peace and serenity already a thing of the past.

"He looks like a sociopathic murderer." Stiles fulminates and his father has to sigh again.

"Well he does."

"Stiles—" John presses his fingers against his forehead and begins massaging.

"I don't know why you haven't already investigated the creep. He could be cooking up dead bodies for all we know."

As a kid, Stiles had a theory. His theory was that Sam had killed Old Joe, the real owner of the diner, and chopped him up in little pieces to serve him in pies—the famous Old Joe's pies. This theory evolved from the fact that the diner is called Old Joe's Diner and not Sam's Diner. Where's Old Joe? Stiles would often ask, and John had to often try to explain that Old Joe's was just a title name.

Of course that led to other theories, and Sam was never brought down from being some kind of murderer. But to be fair, Stiles thinks half of Beacon Hills are some kind of sociopaths, murderers or EOs (ExtraOrdinarys).

"Stiles I'm not going to argue with you about this. We agreed. _You_ agreed that I will have my meal in peace." John looks at his son again with unblinking squinting eyes. He doesn't have crinkles around his eyes for nothing. "Are we still carrying this agreement? Because Brenda doesn't check out until one."

xXxXx

Stiles doesn't care if his father agrees with him or not. Sam is going on his board later tonight. But first he is going to keep his ass out of trouble, because again he likes Brenda but he doesn't like her that much.

"I'm going to the restroom," Stiles mumbles sliding out of the booth before his running mouth gets the better of him. Plus, he is actually looking forward to all of those fries.

xXxXx

John sighs and slumps back in his seat, looking like a much older version of his son, and reaches out for the napkin dispenser once his son is feet away from the table. He smiles to himself and slides the metal napkin box a few inches to the side.

Stiles hasn't changed much, or at least that is what he likes to think, what his son would like him to think. He still sees much of that little boy in him, the one with wide eyes who knew too little of real pain and fear.

His hand falls on the now uncovered spot on the table, and his heart tightens in his chest. John knows they can't pretend forever, that the past, all their problems and fears won't just disappear by simply ignoring them, but remembering is hard and painful. Talking about it is even worse.

John's fingers trace over the carved wood gently.

Yet, scars aren't easy to ignore, not when they are carved so deep. Carved as deep as memories, as deep as these initials.

His fingers run over the third and last initial one more time. Stiles hadn't even figured out that he wanted to be named Stiles yet. He only knew that his teachers hated his name, and Stiles hated them for getting it wrong so many times.

John clears his throat and slides the napkin dispenser back in its place. Some things can wait, especially if they have already for more than eight years, he decides.

xXxXx

Stiles is making his way to the restroom, fidgeting with his hands, and knocking twice on every empty table he passes. He is thinking about possible murders that could be tied back to dear ol' greasy Sam, when he sees something from the corner of his eye. It had looked like a blob, but only because it had passed by supernaturally fast. It had come out of the shadows like a flash of light, but it couldn't have been that because it had limbs. Stiles swore that the blob he saw outside of that window had two feet and two arms.

He stops his knocking to lean forward trying to take a clearer peek out the window, but he sees nothing. Just then, an array of noises comes from the direction of the storage room and Stiles freezes. He turns around, waits, and then takes the last few strides needed to reach the unisex restroom before halting.

The storage room is just on his right. He needs just take two steps and he'd be facing its door.

Stiles licks his lips and peeks over his shoulder. His dad seems preoccupied, staring longingly at the table. And the guy at the counter is still there not giving a fuck. And Sam is—Stiles leans further back—still whistling about in the kitchen.

A groan and another shuffle of things erupt from the room, and Stiles doesn't hesitate. He takes those last few steps and peeks in through the long rectangular narrow window on the door.

It takes a few seconds but then he sees it.

He sees _her_.

A girl.

A teenage girl.

Naked.

And … wet.

Stiles freezes. Either he was right about Sam keeping hostages or—

The girl tilts her head back and Stiles' heart stops. She hasn't seen him. Her very naked back is towards him, and in another time, under a different circumstance, he would have wanted her to turn, but in this very moment at this very time he would very much like it if she stayed just how she was.

But, of course, she doesn't.

Stiles urges his feet to move, to run, to at least trip out of there but they stay rooted. And he pleads his head to turn away, to at least avert his eyes, but neither of them budges. He gawks at her instead. His heart beats furiously in his chest as she slowly turns around to meet his eyes.

And once her doe brown eyes lock with his awestruck ones, it becomes almost impossible for Stiles to look away.

* * *

 **Sorry for the long ass wait. I hope it was kinda worth it though.**

 **Happy Holidays!**

 **(Please review if you can. Tell me if it was worth it. Really, please do.)**


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